38
Nate
Ethan Cross finds me outside the athletic building on a Tuesday afternoon, which feels intentional.
Not dramatic-intentional. He doesn’t shove through a crowd or call my name across the quad like a guy who has watched too many teen dramas.
He just waits near the bottom of the concrete steps with a coffee in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder, looking clean, composed, and annoyingly reasonable.
That’s the worst part about Ethan Cross.
He is not easy to hate. He doesn’t act like an asshole, doesn't smirk like he’s winning, and doesn't swagger around campus wearing superiority like cheap cologne.
He’s just... polite. Smart. Good-looking in a way that probably photographs well for medical school applications.
A nightmare, basically.
I’m coming from film study with Carter and Mason when I see him. Carter clocks him one second after I do. Carter has developed a sixth sense for situations that might emotionally ruin me, and he treats them with the same enthusiasm a shark treats a drop of blood.
“Oh,” Carter says, his voice a low hum of curiosity.
“No,” I mutter, not breaking stride.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed like you had a three-point commentary.”
“I always have a commentary. I was being respectful.”
Mason squints toward the steps. “Is that academic body man?”
Ethan pushes off the low brick wall as we approach. His gaze moves from the guys to me, steady and level. “Wilder. Got a second?”
Carter and Mason exchange a look. Mason whispers, “Duel?” which earns him a dual “No” from both me and Carter.
“Ignore him,” Carter tells Ethan with a bright, fake smile. “He ate a protein bar from 2023 this morning. His brain is fossilizing.”
“It was aged,” Mason protests as Carter grabs his sleeve.
“We’re going to get smoothies,” Carter announces, steering Mason away toward the campus center. Mason starts complaining loudly about mango being a human right, leaving me alone with the man currently taking my girl on dates.
I shove my hands into my pockets, keeping my face neutral. Public places are useful. They discourage murder and emotional honesty, two activities I should probably avoid on a Tuesday.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Ethan takes a slow sip of his coffee, then lowers the cup. He doesn’t waste time. “Are you and Hannah actually done?”
Straight through the neutral zone. No warmup. My first instinct is to lie. To say *no* and watch him back off. But I can't. Not after everything.
“That’s a question for Hannah,” I say, my voice flat.
“I asked her,” Ethan says, his mouth tightening. “She said the it was over.”
“Then there’s your answer,” I tell him.
“Right. But I’m asking you because it doesn’t exactly seem simple.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Most things aren't.”
Ethan looks toward the fountain, then back at me. “I like her.”
My jaw locks so hard it aches. I say nothing, mostly because every thought in my head is a variation of *Join the club* or *Get in line*. He’s observant, though. He sees the tension I’m trying to hide.
“She’s great,” he says.
“I know.” The words come out too fast, too rough.
“Yeah,” Ethan says, his eyes narrowing. “I figured. You don’t look like a guy who’s over it.”
The air goes sharp. I could deny it. I could shrug and say we were never serious. The old version of me would have done it without a second thought. But Hannah has spent the last few weeks teaching me that honest answers matter more than protecting my ego.
“I care about her,” I say. It’s the closest to the truth I can get without breaking my own rules.
“I’m not interested in stepping into something if she’s still tangled up with you,” Ethan says.
*Tangled.* It’s a good word. A terrible word. Accurate enough that I hate it.
“She makes her own choices,” I tell him. “Ask her what she wants.”
“I am.” Ethan shifts his weight, his expression hardening. “Look, Hannah seems... different lately. More confident. Less in her head. She’s funny, but she used to hide it more. Now she doesn’t.”
I hate him for noticing the bloom without knowing the winter. I hate that he gets the version of her that laughs easier because *I* was the one who sat in the dark and helped her find her voice.
“She’s worth knowing,” I say, the words feeling like glass in my throat.
Ethan nods slowly. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Then don’t,” I snap.
He pauses, then asks the question he really came here for. “Did you two ever...” He stops, seeing the look on my face. Smart man.
“Finish that sentence carefully,” I say, stepping into his space. Not enough to cause a scene, but enough to let him feel the temperature drop.
“I’m not asking for details,” he says quickly.
“You’re not asking at all. What happened between Hannah and me isn't something you get to inventory.”
Ethan doesn't back down. “I’m trying to understand if I’m being played.”
“She’s not playing you. She’s figuring things out. Give her room.”
Ethan lets out a breath. “Are you giving her room, Wilder? Because every time I’m with her, it feels like part of her is somewhere else.”
My chest folds in on itself. I know exactly where that *somewhere else* is. It’s on my couch, in my bed, in the quiet moments between the rules. It’s not fair to her, or him, or me.
“I’m trying,” I say. It’s the truest thing I’ve said all day.
We stand there for a moment—two guys admitting the same girl has turned our worlds upside down. Ethan leaves shortly after, and Carter reappears with a smoothie he definitely didn't want.
“Did you punch him?” Carter asks.
“No.”
“Good. What did he want?”
“To know if we’re done. He says she feels like she’s somewhere else when they’re together.”
Carter winces. “You need to talk to her, Nate. A medium scary talk. No big feelings, just... honesty.”
I look at my phone as it buzzes. It’s Hannah, joking about Professor Hale. The ordinary, easy shape of our connection.
**Nate:** *Can we talk later? Not a lesson. Just talk. Medium scary talk.*
**Hannah:** *Medium? Okay. Your place?*
**Nate:** *Kitchen table. Clothes on.*
**Hannah:** *Very official. Seven?*
I pocket the phone. Carter is watching me with a look that’s almost pitying.
“You did it?” he asks.
“Medium scary talk,” I say.
I start walking toward the parking lot, the weight of the night already pressing down on me. The rules were supposed to make this easier. Instead, they’re just the bars of a cage I’m finally tired of living in.